


Valse Musette

by quaffanddoff



Series: Give_Satisfaction [12]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Dancing, M/M, POV Bertie, Pre-Relationship, Realization, Sexual Tension, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaffanddoff/pseuds/quaffanddoff
Summary: An innocent scheme turns dashed romantic when our heroes learn to waltz.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Give_Satisfaction [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561192
Comments: 5
Kudos: 86





	Valse Musette

The whole rummy business began in a small parlour room that was located down the corridor from the main dancefloor of a gigantic ballroom. Hundreds of England’s eligible bachelorettes filled the premises and I had been thrown into the fray at the behest of an aunt. After a night of mishaps, misconduct, and misfortune, I had located my man and dragged him away from the main event to a secluded spot to beg for his assistance.

“…and that’s why Jacqueline thinks I want to marry her, and the only way to change her mind is to go out there and make her jealous by dancing with Josephine!” My voice cracked in despair as I finished my long, complex explanation of the night’s events. “And it can’t just be any old waltz, that would be too easy. No, all the dancers are expected to know something called the Valse Musette. Who has ever heard of such a blasted thing before?”

Jeeves coughed politely into his fist. “The dance in question is a close relative to the standard contemporary Viennese Waltz, sir. I had the opportunity to practice the variation at a charity subscription dance in Camberwell last year.”

My jaw dropped. “By Jove! Do you mean you know how to do the dratted thing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could teach me in the next ten minutes?”

“Well, sir…” He had an expression on his face that I recognized well, for I had seen it countless times before. I call it Fear of Impropriety, and it has been unleashed on all manner of sartorial blunders, domiciliary lapses, and social indiscretions.

“Please, you must help!” I exclaimed, going so far as to seize his lapels in anguish. I was ready to drop to my knees if need be. The f.o.i. effect intensified. I let go of his jacket and it abated a little. He was silent in thought for a long moment.

“Yes, sir,” he said eventually, “I’ll teach you.”

“Thank you, thank you, Jeeves! You’re saving the young master from a fate worse than death, I assure you!”

The grim look on his face told me that he did not consider this hyperbole. Before I really knew what was happening, we were clutching each other in promenade position, one of his arms around my shoulders and one of my hands resting on his back. Our other hands were clasped and held aloft, out to the side. We were suddenly, surreally close.

I quite enjoy dancing and have learned a lot of different styles. The waltz is actually my favourite but I don’t get to practice it nearly as much as I’d like—I had ended up engaged to so many of my dance partners that I had basically been forced to swear it off altogether.

As Jeeves began teaching me the steps, I started to remember why this so often ended in near-nuptials: it’s dashed romantic. Not so fast that it’s frivolous, not so slow that it’s dull. Fashionable but not trendy. Twirly enough to sweep you off your feet but not give you vertigo.

I had never danced with someone taller than me, which was throwing me a bit off-kilter, but it was manageable. It helped that, even though Jeeves was teaching me, I was technically leading. He had set us up that way so I would be able to transfer my knowledge to my dance with Josephine.

I shuddered at that thought and brought my attention back to the present moment. Swaying with Jeeves was undoubtedly awkward but, at the same time, undeniably pleasant. He murmured instructions to me as we glided across the floor. After a while, I stopped listening to his words and just let his movements guide me. Reacting to his body language and physical cues was all I needed. I knew he was still talking because I could feel his chest rumbling under my hand where it rested on his back, but I could no longer hear his voice; he was able to steer me with nothing but small touches and subtle gestures. Eventually, he seemed to realize that speech was no longer necessary, and we continued our lesson silently. He and I were silent, that is; the orchestra playing in the main ballroom sounded distant but still quite audible. We kept rhythm with the muffled music.

He shuffled gracefully with decent footwork and upright, if somewhat stiff, posture. His formal poise lent a solemn dignity to his fleckerls and contra checks. He was adapting to the lady’s role remarkably well, considering he hadn’t been following when he learned this step, but retaining a few masculine habits was inevitable. I couldn’t fault him for tucking one arm smartly behind his back out of habit rather than sweeping it outward when we swung into fan position. I also noticed he was a little hesitant when I raised our clasped hands above his head and led him in a spin under my arm. He looked self-conscious as he turned on the spot, but he needn’t have felt embarrassed; he would never believe me if I told him how dashing he actually looked doing it.

His mouth was level with my cheek. I could sometimes feel his breath on my ear when we were close. When we turned out, moving apart from each other, I felt the strength in his fingers, the only thing left keeping us connected. When we came back together and our arms encircled each other once more, I felt a curious sense of gratitude, as if I were opening the exact Christmas present I had wanted but had never expected to actually receive. 

From the outside, I knew it actually looked like nothing special, as our technique was merely adequate—we’re just amateurs, not professionals, after all. Plus, I wondered to myself, how could two men dancing together be seen as anything but comical and absurd? Yet, although this new step was unfamiliar to me, I felt lighter on my feet than ever before. And I felt a corresponding lightness in my heart.

Unfortunately all the turning was also making me light-headed. I misjudged a step and stumbled slightly; his bow tie grazed my cheek. This struck me as odd: granted, I had never danced with a partner wearing a tie before, but I couldn’t recall this happening in reverse (that is, none of the fillies I had danced with had ever become so intimately acquainted with my neckwear). I realized that my hand had slipped from his middle back down to his waist, which had pulled us gradually closer. I knew I should put it back where it belonged, but I also wanted to avoid drawing undue attention to its improper placement by moving it now, so I left it.

I kept noticing these small contrasts between this experience and my typical dance partners. His waist was thicker. His jacket was rougher than a ballgown. He felt solid and sturdy and I found myself clinging to him more than usual for a ballroom dance. This firmer connection allowed us to predict each other’s movements better, until it felt almost like we were reading each other’s minds.

I was glad, though, that he couldn’t literally read my mind, because I knew that some of the thoughts drifting across it would set off his f.o.i. alarm like nothing else before. They were setting off mine, even, but for me, it was but the work of a moment to disable the alarm system, call off the hounds, and welcome the intruders in.

The intuitive ease and rightness of this physical exchange between us had me wondering what other kinds of physical encounters we could have that would be equally successful. Desire was rising in me, I couldn’t deny it. I started to reject it, shove it back down, as was always my instinct when these proclivities of mine started to assert themselves. But this time I couldn’t stop it, so instead, for once, I chose to embrace it. Would I _choose_ to be a deviant, an invert? Of course not. Did I _want_ to be an opportunist, greedily taking advantage of his subordinate? No, never. But did I want to keep holding this precious man, breathing him in, being saved by him, adoring him? Most assuredly, yes. Why couldn’t I have what I desired without having to be what I despised? I tried not to feel bitter that I was damned no matter what I did.

I could smell his aftershave, his collar starch, his pomade, and his plain Jeevesness. It was this last scent that gave me a sudden desire to go straight to the source and shove my face into the crook of his neck. I resisted the urge and placated myself by instead timing my inhales to those moments where we were more proximate.

The far-off music was reaching its crescendo. I held tight to one of his hands and spun him out away from me with a flourish. We made eye contact over our clasped hands and I couldn’t help but grin, watching the man turn on the end of my outstretched arm. He shocked me by grinning back. I pulled him back and he half-turned into me, his back pressed against my front. I held him there for a beat. Instinctively, I placed an arm at his lower back, inviting him into a dip; he shocked me again by accepting my invitation. It was a shallow dip, not as deep as I have often supported, but somehow I felt that I had never had a partner place so much trust into my hands. In the next room, the distant crowd cheered for the band’s performance. In my mind, they were cheering for us.

Although I pulled him back out of the dip slowly, my pulse raced. He reached the top but I didn’t loosen my protective grip on him. We stared at each other for several long moments. The air was tense between us and he looked reluctant to breathe it in. I wondered if my face was as flushed as his was. My eyes flickered to his lips and he licked them reflexively. I felt that urge to bury my face in his chest again, and God help me, this time I succumbed.

But I had barely begun my plunge when suddenly we were disengaged completely. He had sprung back as my eyes had drifted closed. They snapped open again and I felt suddenly unmoored.

“It is my opinion that you are proficient in the variation, sir. You should hurry back to the ballroom and find Miss Balmain as soon as possible,” he said impassively.

“Er, right," I fumbled. "Yes. Thank you for the lesson, Jeeves. You’re not at all a bad dancer, you know.”

“You’re kind to say so, sir.”

Possibly sensing that I was going to keep drawing out this conversation, he floated away, leaving not a trace behind.

I was sorry to see him go, and even sorrier to think of what I had to do next. But at the same time, I felt a great optimism for the future. That wasn’t the kind of experience you have just once and never seek again. That was the kind of experience you repeat and escalate, the kind of impetus that only gains momentum. We had been building to this moment for some time, and on some deeper level, we both knew it. I felt certain that, although the song may be over, our dance was only just beginning.


End file.
